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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26592526">Properly Indecent</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/songoshen/pseuds/lasersonicked'>lasersonicked (songoshen)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Doctor Who &amp; Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Humiliation, I got carried away?, M/M, Mentions of Prostitution, Mildly Dubious Consent, Roleplay, Somewhat established relationship, Victorian era, elements of BDSM, implied exhibitionism, there's a lot of set up for something that was meant to be a PWP, unexpected angst and fluff for some reason</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 02:40:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,896</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26592526</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/songoshen/pseuds/lasersonicked</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"You were jealous," the Master says, holding the Doctor's gaze, unwavering and impassive. Not a question but a statement, clipped and sure. </p><p>Heat flashes in the Doctor's cheeks again, rushing to his ears and neck. "You were causing a scene," he deflects, finding it difficult to maintain eye contact with the Master, the other's amber stare as if piercing easily through him.</p><p>A slow, confident grin creeps up the Master's face. "I was not. I only danced."</p><p>---</p><p>Post-EoT AU. Tumbling into a broom closet isn't quite what the Doctor envisioned when he wheedled the Master into attending a ball in Victorian England, but he should've never underestimated the Master's propensity for trouble. (Or more accurately, the strength of his own jealousy.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tenth Doctor/The Master (Simm), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>93</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"You're not going out like <em> that</em>, are you?"</p><p>The Master's incredulous tone stops the Doctor dead in his tracks, his hand stretched midway towards the door. He spins around, giving his clothes a confused once over – tie knotted, shirt properly tucked, coat free of stains, nothing out of ordinary – and cocks his head. "Like what?" </p><p>They've just arrived in London 1872 on a cold November night, the bold reds of the horizon melting into dusky twilight as the sun sets fully. It's a bland time of the year, nothing notable about the time period beyond the ordinary hustle and bustle of people preparing for the coming winter, but picked conveniently before he was banned by Queen Victoria. The Doctor prefers the relative peace and quiet for once, away from government insurgencies and civil wars across space and time that he and the Master have been caught up in for the past few weeks, though he suspects that half of the chaos had been the Master's doing. It's just unfortunate that his idea of relaxing doesn't often align with the Master, the latter having suggested a luxury resort at one of the numerous 70th century entertainment planets and counting how many bars they can hit by sunrise. And probably try to take over the local government behind the Doctor's back, as he's prone to do. </p><p>He rejected it swiftly without much thought, but it took hours more of squabbling before they settled at last on attending a noble class Victorian ball. Snobby and lavish to suit the Master's ridiculous tastes, but subdued enough for them to stay nameless in the background while the Doctor lets his mind float into oblivion, observe people going about their lives and bask in the blissful simplicity of doing nothing for a change. He likes to tell himself that his newfound repulsion for resorts is for the trouble they inevitably cause with the Master around– certainly not because the Midnight fiasco left him still wary of such places. </p><p>The Doctor shivers, phantom pain sinking in his muscles at the memory of his body being invaded and immobilized by that strange entity. He rubs his jaw distractedly, shrugging when the Master continues to glare at him, arms crossed and lips pressed in a firm line.</p><p>The Master gives another shake of his head, wagging his finger at the Doctor. "Absolutely not."</p><p>Bewildered, the Doctor reaches down to take off his shoes. They don't seem any more scuffed than usual, if a bit gray from dust and old age. His socks, bright red with green apples and smiley faces patterned across the wool, aren't mismatched either. "My socks are… alright?" he tries, tone raising into a question when he straightens up again, fingers brushing the lapels of his coat to catch any stray bits of lint. </p><p>Then it hits him when he takes a proper look at the Master.</p><p>Ah.</p><p>Gone is the ratty black hoodie and trousers the Master has favored since his resurrection, as well as the odd bit of stubble that's clung stubbornly to his face, never seeming to grow into a full beard even though the Doctor's fairly sure the Master hasn't touched a razor. He's dressed in a black tailcoat and black trousers, a white low-cut vest, and a starched shirt, pressed smooth and tucked. His dress shoes are polished and gleaming, with a small bow tie and white gloves completing the outfit. The blonde hair, too, is properly combed and parted, a far cry from the otherwise unkempt nest the Master's been sporting.</p><p>The Doctor hasn't seen the Master be so well put together in– well. A long while. His eyes rove the Master's figure, lingering at the slim waistline, his mind short-circuiting at how striking the other appears in Victorian garb. </p><p>"Doctor?" the Master snaps, waving a gloved hand vigorously in front of his face.</p><p>The Doctor startles, quickly shutting his open jaw. "Sorry, I uh– What was the question?"</p><p>Scrunching his nose, the Master grabs onto the Doctor's arm, abandoning any further explanation and dragging him along into the depths of the TARDIS, past the various winding stairs and snaking corridors until they reach the huge wardrobe room. He's heedless of the Doctor's protests as he rifles briskly through rows of suits, giving some of the more colorful ones a prolonged glower of disdain before tossing them onto the floor. Lips curling at a particularly garish jacket from the Doctor's sixth regeneration, the Master folds it into a thick ball and dropkicks it across the room, landing neatly into a standing bin with a dull thump.</p><p>The Doctor's finger twitches as he fights the urge to retrieve the coat, not quite willing to part with it but not ready to invoke the Master's wrath either, in case he'd be stuffed into a more absurd outfit. With luck, the TARDIS will allow it to reappear elsewhere instead of having it disincenerated. </p><p>Half buried in the eclectic swathe of shirts and coats, the Master eventually emerges with a black suit and white vest with designs resembling his own, simple but visibly well-tailored. They sail through the air, hitting the Doctor squarely in the chest.</p><p>"Strip," the Master commands, voice partially muffled by the rack of clothes. Another white shirt flies towards the Doctor, and he hastily snatches it out of the air before it hits him in the face. </p><p>With a dubious glance at the clothing, the Doctor shrugs off his coat and his brown jacket, fumbling over the buttons of his shirt as he peels it off himself. His eyes dart towards the Master, head still buried deep in the numerous suits, his hands hovering uncertainly over the hem of the T-shirt he always wears underneath all his layers. </p><p>"I do mean everything," the Master says, extricating himself at last from the endless racks of clothes. He straightens his jacket with one hand and brushes back a loose strand of hair with the other. There's a hint of a smirk dancing on his face when he gives the Doctor's state of half-dress a once over, eyes dropping to the Doctor's exposed stomach and the dusting of hair trailing downwards. </p><p>The Doctor hesitates a moment longer, then turns his back to the Master, yanking off his shirt in a fluid moment and tossing it backwards in what he hopes is the Master's direction. He's disappointed to hear only a rustle and a short laugh. </p><p>The trousers come off next, leaving him in a pair of blue briefs, goosebumps rising on his skin from the light draft. He tries to ignore the prickle at the back of his neck when he bends down to pick up the shirt and slip it on, fingers pausing momentarily to run over the ruffles lining the chest, stiff and well starched. As he turns to the vest, he notices a slight glimmer in the cloth. Caught under the light, it appears to be very faintly colored as opposed to plain white, shimmery as if threaded with gold, the buttons inlaid with dark sapphires and wrapped in more gold. It's cool and light to the touch, too– silk, he surmises. The jacket and trousers are a near imperceptible shade of navy blue as well, soft and fine, clearly an expensive cut of fabric. He shifts under the layers, unaccustomed to how tightly they wrap around his shoulders and waist as if molded to his body, his hips and thighs constrained under the close fit. </p><p> A light tap on his back makes him jump forward, stumbling over the pile of his discarded clothes with an undignified flailing of limbs. He spins around and sees the Master with his eyebrows raised, palms outstretched with a pair of gloves and a strip of cloth in the same gold hue as the Doctor's vest. </p><p>The Doctor flusters, snatching the gloves out of his grip and pulling them on. Silk again, he notes.</p><p>He freezes when the Master suddenly leans in, arms wrapping around his neck and dragging him forwards until they're inches away from each other, so close that he can count every eyelash on the Master, smell the notes of jasmine and bergamot from his cologne. Belatedly he realizes that the Master has drawn the strip of bowtie over his collar, the other deep in concentration as he judges the length. </p><p>A hand comes up and winds itself in his hair, firmly tilting his head back to expose his throat. He can keenly discern the Master's quiet breaths, warm puffs of air ghosting his lips and neck, a wave of nervousness washing over him as he tries to not fidget.</p><p>The Master tugs sharply on the knot, edging on the border of discomfort when the Doctor swallows, and continues to work in deft, efficient movements, noiseless and absorbed in his work. The silence seems to amplify the Doctor's increasingly ragged breathing, echoing loudly in his ears. </p><p>He pulls back at last with a satisfied grin adoring his face, walking a handful of paces backwards and twirling the air with a finger. </p><p>Dazed, the Doctor holds out his arms and turns slowly around in a circle, blinking when his senses return to him. "Why do I need to be dressed like this?" he complains, indignity and a vague spark of humiliation flaring. In the ill-fitting clothes he feels more like a marionette playing dress up, adorned in accessories too opulent for his comfort. </p><p>The Master's grin widens. "We're going to a ball, Doctor. It's all about period appropriate clothing in Victorian England if we want to blend into the crowd. That's the point today, isn't it?" </p><p>The Doctor's shoulders sag in resignation as he considers this. "Just this once," he concedes, smoothing his shirt collar. He casts a discreet look to his arse, wondering if it's only his imagination that the curves seem a little more defined than normal. "But I don't think I can run in these." </p><p>"With luck, we shouldn't have to run. More dancing, I hope." The Master lifts up a pair of dress shoes, a black band running across the vamp and the insoles indigo, offering them to the Doctor.</p><p>The Doctor sighs, casting a mournful glance at his cream-colored Converse before he reluctantly takes the dress shoes and steps into them. He flexes an ankle, wincing when the fresh leather bites into his heel and chafes at the sides. "I suppose." </p><p>He doubts he'll get much dancing done either, not if he wants to avoid blisters for the night. </p><p>"Oh, and before I forget." With a flourish, the Master produces a palm-sized bundle from behind him, a cluster of small lilac flowers tied at the stems with a handful of holly leaves. He slides the end through the buttonhole on the Doctor's left lapel, securing it with a covered latch at the back. </p><p>The Master points at his own lapel, decorated as well with a cut of white rose, sprigs of miniature white flowers and leaves encircling the base. "Boutonnières are in fashion by this time." </p><p>The Doctor frowns, examining his own flowers more closely. "So why have I got mezereons when you get–" </p><p>His question dies on his tongue when he sees that the Master is already halfway out the door and racing down the corridor, singing cheerfully to an obnoxious pop song from Earth that he's been playing nonstop for the past two weeks. </p><p>"We'll be late if you don't hurry!" The Master calls out, voice echoing from the hall and taking on a suspiciously more gleeful tone than hours earlier when the Doctor had first suggested Victorian England.</p><p>The Doctor takes a final peek in the mirror – he's <em> really </em> quite sure that the suit is a size too small, especially around his arse of all places – and double checks for his sonic screwdriver, safely tucked away in a jetted pocket, before following after the Master with yet another sigh. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>They arrive at a large mansion with the TARDIS parked a mile away, a great house nestled in a sprawling green garden, dotted with elaborate stone fountains and well-trimmed hedges. It sits three stories tall with high, pointed arches and spirals, the windows glazed and blazing with light from within the manor, intricately carved pillars and Greek statues in perfect symmetry by the huge wooden double doors. Most of the guests seem to be trickling in at this hour, the road leading to the entryway filled with dozens of horse-drawn carriages, each more ornate than the last. As the Doctor stands in line with the Master and surveys the people around them, every single one dressed in refined clothing and jewelry, he grudgingly accepts that he'd have stuck out like a sore thumb with his typical suit and coat ensemble. </p><p>At last they shuffle to the front where the uniformed greeters stand, checking invitations and ushering guests in with a bow. The Doctor aims a charming smile at one, pulling out a slip of psychic paper, claims of being businessmen who specialize in luxury clockwork neatly inked in heavy parchment. </p><p>Disinterest clear on his face, the greeter hardly scans the invitation before herding them into the main hall, an expansive room lit bright with dizzying crystal chandeliers that hang from the high ceiling. Next to the polished bannisters of the grand staircase, a string quartet plays merrily on a raised stage, many people already milling about and conversing with each other. Couples sway to the music in the center of the room, their movements graceful and practiced. </p><p>Taking a deep breath, the Doctor drinks it all in, the broken snippets of conversation drifting in and out of earshot, the lilting notes of the strings, flashes of vibrant gown colors and fans, the sheer vibrancy of life in the main hall invigorating him and washing away the bone-deep exhaustion he's been carrying since Gallifrey's near return. </p><p>"Well," the Master says. They're both leaning on a wall by one of the side doors, away from the main chatter and activity and partially hidden by marble statues, the Master's features schooled in a mask of careful indifference. But despite his neutral tone and appearance, the Doctor instinctively knows from the slightly arched brows that the other is impressed. "This is very grandiose."</p><p>Nodding wordlessly in reply, the Doctor scans the room with interest. He spies two servants whispering to each other by the back stairs, balancing piles of silverware and discarded goblets in their arms. A fork teeters at the edge of the topmost plate, mere seconds from falling. </p><p>The Master nudges him with the point of his shoe. "What's the occasion?" </p><p>The fork clatters onto the floor, noise muted by the plush carpet floor, but neither servant seems to have noticed as they vanish behind the door. "Nothing in particular, I think," the Doctor says, turning to face the Master. "It's owned by Richard Addington, a businessman of noble blood. I believe in the next few years he'll be trying to expand his trade empire, so he's invited a lot of the local nobility and MPs to keep his network fresh." </p><p>At this the Master perks up and straightens, interest shining in his eyes. "Trade empire? Politicians? Do tell."</p><p>"It collapses in ten years' time because he'll be arrested for a long list of charges, with a lot of the notable figures tonight implicated too." The Doctor grins widely, watching the Master slump down with a barely disguised scowl. </p><p>"You never let me have any fun," the Master complains, crossing his arms. </p><p>They lapse back in silence, both absorbed by the growing crowd of dancers and the excited gossip, more musicians joining the string quartet until the music swells to a full ensemble and flows into a jauntier rhythm. </p><p>Several more moments pass when the Doctor notices a spectacled man nearing them from the corner of his vision, each step measured and assured, taking great care to not disturb any crowds. Alert, he quickly nudges the Master with his elbow as he eyes the man warily, bringing the other up from his slouched position. </p><p>"Evening, gentlemen," the man says with a small bow, a polite smile on his face and sounding warm and pleasant. Despite his deceivingly youthful features, there's no hiding the white streaks in his hair or the more pronounced lines on his hands. "I believe we haven't had the pleasure of meeting yet."</p><p>From the ease of his posture and the confident manner of his speech, the Doctor guesses that this man must be the master of the house, likely making rounds to check on his guests. He doesn't miss the curious look in Richard Addington's eyes when he regards the two of them, nor when he pauses just a beat longer over the Doctor's figure. </p><p>The Master steps between them, cutting in before the Doctor can respond. "Evening," he says with a smooth bow in return. "I'm Harold Saxon of Saxon Industries, we've recently moved to London from up north when we received your invite. It's truly a pleasure to be here."</p><p>Addington inclines his head, fixing the Master with a thoughtful gaze. "I'm afraid I am not entirely familiar with Saxon Industries, but I hope you've been adjusting well here, Mr. Saxon? Some people say we can be rather different from the north."</p><p>"London is different," the Master agrees, reaching behind to lay a hand on the Doctor's arm and pivoting him forward, "but very agreeable so far. May I introduce my companion for the night, John Smith?"</p><p>The Doctor smiles and bows, mildly disconcerted by the other man's firm grasp, unrelenting when he attempts to tug himself loose. "Good evening, Mr. Addington."</p><p>A pit turns in his stomach as he regards the Master's uncharacteristic friendly attitude, thick with skepticism at the animated small talk between the other man and Addington. There's no doubt that the Master oozes natural charisma, but he generally chooses to wield it so purposefully when there's a motive. The Doctor wonders if cogs are churning now in the Master's head – a to-be crime lord like Addington would be an ideal target for trouble, not to mention the dozens of powerful men scattered among the guests or the very presence of a large and eager crowd as a potential audience. For a brief moment, he even considers if their visit here will be what causes Addington's downfall in ten years, a fixed point, an inevitable causal loop they've unwittingly stepped into. </p><p>He dismisses the idea though, not sensing any tangled knots in the flow of time, no indications of irregularities beyond the standard fluctuation, a million choices nudging the tapestry, but he resolves nonetheless to keep a closer eye on the Master.</p><p>"Any particular plans, gentlemen?" Addington asks, breaking away from idle conversation and gesturing towards the dance floor. People have begun splitting into groups of eight, the music slowing to accommodate brighter, heavier accents from the brass. "I'm sure there are an abundance of cards waiting to be filled. The night is young."</p><p>"That would be lovely," the Master replies. "Though if it isn't too much trouble, I'd be interested in making new acquaintances this evening. The city can be overwhelming for newcomers like us." </p><p>The Doctor looks sharply at the Master. To plot so blatantly in front of him sends alarm bells ringing in his head, wary of what the Master has planned. Or is hiding, most likely, by using the conversations as a smokescreen. He shoots a stern warning glance at the other man, who returns it with a look of wide-eyed innocence and a shrug of his shoulders, as if not comprehending his glare. </p><p>"I can certainly do that," Addington says. His eyes drift swiftly towards the Doctor and back as he speaks, inscrutable. "There are many here tonight who would be delighted to make your acquaintance. It's been in fashion to reclaim Greek practices these days." </p><p>The Master smiles, eyes light with excitement. "That would be much appreciated, Mr. Addington. Thank you."</p><p>"Of course." Smiling back, Addington then redirects his attention to the Doctor and nods at him. "The holly is a lovely touch by the way, Mr. Smith." </p><p>"Oh uh– thank you?" Caught by surprise, the Doctor's words come out as a question, his fingers flying upwards to hover over the bundle on his lapel, self-conscious. "Mr. Saxon helped me pick it out." </p><p>The name feels almost foreign on the tongue, reminding him uncomfortably of the pre-election days, the cloying sweet and mind numbing hypnosis layered over the Earth from the Archangel– hypnosis? </p><p>Addington stifles a knowing grin as he appraises the Doctor a second time, the gleam in his eyes unsettling the Doctor more than before. "He undoubtedly has a great eye." </p><p>The Doctor smiles awkwardly and elects to stay silent, feeling a nagging suspicion that he's missed something obvious. Curious, he extends his awareness outwards to detect any signs of hypnosis, but he doesn't feel anything out of ordinary from either man. And if the Master noticed anything odd in their short exchange, he makes no indication, focusing instead on the dance floor, the fluid movements of couples twirling to the steady beat of the music. </p><p>"If you'll follow me then, gentlemen." Addington holds an arm out and bows once more, signaling for them to follow. </p><p>As he leads them through the main hall, the Doctor scans the crowd and notices that most, if not all, of the men at the ball wore a boutonnière of some sort, representing a vast array of styles and flowers. He doesn't see anyone with white roses or mezereons like the ones he and the Master are sporting, but few are wearing identical designs anyway, assuaging some of his doubts. </p><p>Passing the central hubbub of activity, they gradually approach a quiet corner where a group of men appear to be deep in conversation with each other as they sip from crystal goblets, seemingly disconnected from the majority of the party. With a new round of introductions, the Doctor recognizes a spare few as nobles and politicians of the time – and another with connections to Oscar Wilde, if he remembers correctly – though none with enough influence and power that the Master would be interested in. </p><p>Their talk meanders, the men discussing everything from the weather to tobacco prices, and even the talk of politics stay blandly neutral, never going further than casual speculation of who may win the seats for the next election. Somehow the Master follows along smoothly with occasional interjections of his own, leaving the Doctor to ponder why and how the Master possesses such mundane information. </p><p>He's appalled to realize, several long minutes later and mind floating away to the high rafters, that he is <em> beyond </em>bored. There really is nothing special to their exchange, no trace of hypnosis, no disguised speech to indicate if the Master is attempting anything. Nothing. The Master is simply, truly engaged in plain conversation and blending in with the people, just as the Doctor asked. </p><p>He's almost disappointed. </p><p>A pat on his shoulder brings him back to reality, the hand sliding down to rest at his hip, and he's stunned when he's greeted by an endearing smile on the Master's face. The Master usually loathes to show such overt physical affection, but the heat of his palm now radiates through the layers of the Doctor's suit, causing the Doctor to feel ill at ease. He scans the men surrounding them, each with a strange glint of interest in their eyes. </p><p>"Anyway– I'll take leave for a few dances tonight before I'm too worn," the Master says, jerking a thumb at a small group of people nearby, some with ruffled fans in their hands, clearly observing him from afar and beckoning him to come forth. "John is a very earnest fellow and equally as interested in clockwork as I am, so I'm sure you'll get splendidly along." </p><p>The Doctor watches as he bounds away, maneuvering quickly through the crowds and coming to a halt in front of one of the ladies with a dramatic flourish. They immediately converge around him, tall figures and gown laces swallowing his frame, their voices drowned out by the crescendoing orchestra. </p><p>He distinctly regrets it, coming to a place where the Master fits in so naturally, many steps ahead when he seems to flounder, bored and perplexed by the convoluted speech. The irony of having picked the poison himself tastes bitter on his tongue when the Master bows deeply in front of one woman, leading her by hand to the dance floor with a roguish grin. </p><p>Suddenly he'd much rather hunt down the refreshments room for any nibbles – he thinks he saw two men with cucumber sandwiches earlier – or sneak into the servants' hall to check for any hidden gossip. If he has the chance to dig around, then– the Master's hand just slid lower down his partner's waist. And he's pulling her in as they waltz, their faces close, every motion elegant and perfectly synchronized to the triple rhythm. </p><p>"If you'll excuse me as well," he starts, already taking a step backwards, thinking of bonbons and jellies and tea, <em>n</em><em>ot </em>debating whether their dancing is considered obscene by the standards of the time. Anything to get away from the room,  the stuffy Victorian etiquette. </p><p>"If you could hold a minute, Mr. Smith." One man holds a hand out, stopping him midway. The graying goatee and shape of his moustache reminds the Doctor vaguely of one of the Master's older regenerations, except much taller. "Mr. Saxon said you're fairly skilled with fob watch mechanics, so I was wondering if you could take a look."</p><p>The Doctor blinks as he takes the proffered fob watch and turns it over in his hand, noting some worn scratches and a minor dent on its chrome outer cover. The clock hands have frozen in place, but the exposed silver gears on the watch face continue to move and tick quietly along. His hand instinctively reaches into his lapel before he remembers that he's forgotten his specs in the other coat. </p><p>He raises it higher in the light, squinting at the layers of delicate cogs and wheels. "Without a screwdriver I can't be sure," he says. "It looks like one of the main gears connected to clock hands has shifted, maybe."</p><p>The man sighs, shaking his head. "I got it from one of the shops down in Leicester Square. Unreliable little things they tend to be." </p><p>Another younger man – a Mr. Langdon or Mr. Langley ? – nods in agreement, a hand combing through his honey locks. "I would not suggest the Haymarket for a replacement either. They're good at promising, but they never quite deliver. Have you heard of Portland, by any chance?"</p><p>"The one that opened two months ago?" the first man responds. He strokes his goatee in thought. "I've heard very extensively about their outrageous fees, Mr. Langley. And especially how exclusive their customers are."</p><p>"I'm sure they would welcome a man of your standing with open arms, Mr. Fulton. Incredibly skilled hands they have, not unlike our Mr. Smith here." </p><p>Baffled, the Doctor stalls his tinkering and looks up, halfway through removing the screws with a spare coin in his pocket. "Pardon?"</p><p>"Just in awe of your talent, Mr. Smith. I haven't had the good fortune yet to meet anyone who can puzzle out my fob watch so quickly," Mr. Fulton says with a gentle smile, wrinkling prominently around his hazel eyes and the corners of his lips. "Perhaps I should speak more often with young men in suits as fine as yours."</p><p>The Doctor glances briefly down at himself, conscious once more of the glimmering silk and sapphires adorning his outfit, both irritated and impressed that the Master wheedled the TARDIS into listening to him at last. And for a demand as ludicrous as this outfit, too. </p><p>He grins nonetheless at the compliment and resumes dismantling the chrome cover. "I can be pretty good with a lot of things, not only fob watches." </p><p>"Is that so?" The Doctor hears Mr. Langley shift, the slightest brush of fabric against each other and a soft clinking of glass. "Any inclination for music? Singing, perhaps?" </p><p>"Not singing, no." He extracts a spare piece of thin wire from his pocket, bending it into a hook to prod at the sharp teeth of the rotating gears. "I can play the organ and a couple of odd instruments."</p><p>"Mmm. Very fitting for nimble fingers." From his periphery the Doctor notices that Langley has turned to the pocket watch, seemingly fascinated by his work as he pokes about the various parts with a small frown. "I know a young chap who's very adept with a range of wind instruments. His tongue work on reeds is unparalleled."</p><p>"Is he from Portland again?" Mr. Fulton says, tone humorous. </p><p>Mr. Langley chuckles, but it's a harsh sound, a little too dark to mistake for simple amusement. "Yes, in fact. Very expensive, but the exquisite music was worth every penny."</p><p>The Doctor finally manages to lodge the hook between a central spring and two gears, bringing the pocket watch to a full stop as its ticking fades, every piece rendered immobile. He draws out a toothpick from his pocket, testing to see if he can squeeze it into one of the miniscule gaps. </p><p>"As much as the cost of Mr. Smith's service, I'd wager."</p><p>At that, the Doctor raises his head and his hands freeze, toothpick levered under a loose cog. Both men are looking expectantly at him, clearly awaiting a response. </p><p>A flash of panic fills him as he hesitates, mind racing through watchmakers and average pricing in the 1800s, fumbling for an appropriate response. He'd hardly expected anyone to ask, let alone actually fix a watch for someone, and he hadn't paid attention earlier to what the Master had said to them either, unsure if he'd accidentally contradict something. </p><p>Noticing his pause, Mr. Fulton swiftly cuts in. "My apologies for being so forward. I understand that it's something to be negotiated in more private quarters. If you don't mind, I'd be interested in further discussion with Mr. Saxon later regarding this matter." </p><p>Nodding and smiling politely, the Doctor elects to stay quiet again and resumes his tinkering. Better to let Mr. Fulton be fully convinced of their watchmaking enterprise than to inadvertently spoil the impression. </p><p>"Judging by those sapphire buttons, it likely doesn't come cheap," Mr. Langley jokes. </p><p>The Doctor is too distracted by the fob watch to respond, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration as he teases the loose gear into its original slot, the small talk waning into background noise. The gear falls into place with a distinct click, and he withdraws both the toothpick and wire, letting out a cry of victory when all the individual parts immediately start rotating as one, the hands moving correctly again with its ticking resumed. </p><p>Grinning widely, the Doctor reassembles the cover and screws it in, patting the repaired pocket watch and handing it back to Mr. Fulton. "All good to go."</p><p>Face full of amazement, Mr. Fulton examines the restored clock face and begins to fiddle with its dials to readjust the time. "Such clever hands," he remarks with a wistful sigh. "And such clever wit as well. Mr. Saxon is lucky to have you with him tonight."</p><p>"Oh we're not– it's not a one night thing," the Doctor says, mildly confused. "We've known each other for a long time now." </p><p>"A long-term partnership?"</p><p>"... You could say that." </p><p>An old pain flares, weariness settling in his chest. He himself wouldn't know how to describe his relationship with the Master, irrevocably transformed since becoming the last two Time Lords, alone in the universe with the weight of their entire civilization on their shoulders. And it changed yet again since the Master's resurrection, a strange companionship now after having saved each other from certain death. As easy as breathing they've fallen into a familiar rhythm like the old days at the Academy, both of them pretending to forget the past few centuries of bitterness. But the Master remains as mercurial as ever, prone to stirring up chaos and trouble in such a nonchalant manner that the Doctor wonders if it's all an elaborate act. Wait patiently to strike him at his most vulnerable, then slip again into enmity, the endless cycle of plotting and thwarting. </p><p>Sometimes he wakes up in cold sweat, nightmares vividly imprinted in his head, throat closed and afraid to find the Master gone from his side.</p><p>The music shifts presently to an upbeat tune, new couples pouring onto the dance floor and the old quietly taking their leave, and the two men seem envious now as they look towards the Master, still on the dance floor but with a different woman. Yet another blonde, the Doctor notices with slight resentment. </p><p>They're dancing to the polka, light on their feet and springing into the air with each skip, bright smiles and eyes trained on each other. More people than before appear to surround them, watching in fascination.</p><p>The Doctor tries to suppress a building worry, hands restless in his pockets and feet tapping impatiently against the hardwood floor until the music draws to a close at last, changing back to a triple metre waltz. The Master and his partner take their leave with little flair, melting unobtrusively into the crowd and emerging on the other side to return to their original group. </p><p>They're engaged in animated conversation when the Master joins in, their chatter pausing briefly as they refocus their attention on him. The Doctor's jaw tightens subconsciously when he sees the Master winking at his dance partners and sidling closer to another young man – a ginger, the Doctor's never been a ginger before – who's just shown up, nearly arm in arm with him. Then he laughs, his whole body shaking as the young man lowers his head to whisper something into his ear. </p><p>The Master puts his arm around the young man's back in response, tip-toeing slightly to whisper in his ear as well. The other looks at him in delight and shakes his head, a cheeky grin on his lips, both laughing some more. </p><p>It's so unusual for the Master to be this at ease with other people, genuine and infectious happiness radiating outward without the masks and walls he always hides behind. And when the young man taps the Master on the shoulder, anger and jealousy sear through the Doctor's veins like wildfire, so vicious and potent that he's caught off-guard by the intensity, the ache that burns inside and the throbbing in his jaw from tension, the nonsensical yearning to <em> be </em>that man. </p><p>That's it. They're going to go back to the TARDIS and call it night. </p><p>"Sorry, but I really do have to go," the Doctor says, throwing an apologetic glance at the two men. They've resumed speaking with the rest of the group, and he's slightly taken aback to see that they all appear to be observing him with that same, unnerving glint in their eyes. </p><p>What is it about him that keeps drawing their attention? Is it really his suit? </p><p>Mr. Langley walks forward, a slip of paper held delicately between two fingers. He touches the Doctor's palm and presses the paper into his hand, remaining for a few seconds in his grasp before drawing back, grazing over the pads of the Doctor's fingers as he does. It sends a tingle of discomfort down the Doctor's spine despite the gloves separating both their hands. </p><p> "I'm aware that you already have prior arrangements for this evening, but please come by and visit sometime." Mr. Langley says, amicable and inviting. "I would love to hear you on the organ."  </p><p>The Doctor eyes the card, dumbfounded and a little more than suspicious. It's a calling card, with Oliver Langley written in bold, large calligraphy on the cream-colored stock, intricate borders etched into the sides and an address printed on the back. He shoves it carelessly into a pocket, intent on investigating the name later. </p><p>"And Mr. Smith?" Mr. Langley winks as the Doctor turns to leave. "Holly suits you." </p><p>The Doctor barely manages a stuttered thanks before he spins around and walks briskly away, resisting the urge to rip the flowers off his lapel, confusion and anxiety jumbled together with biting jealousy. They toss in his head in disorienting circles as he approaches the Master, the other too busy conversing with his newfound company to notice him stalking forwards. </p><p>He shoves roughly past the group surrounding the Master, trodding on points of leather shoes and hems of fine gowns, ignoring the gasps of disapproval, the pointed glowering and disgruntled scowls directed his way. "Can we talk?" he hisses, yanking sharply on the Master's sleeve.</p><p>The Master blinks up at him, a hint of annoyance in his gaze and in the thin press of his lips. "It's unbecoming to introduce oneself so rudely."</p><p>The chorus of harsh and mocking snickers rising around the Doctor only serves to fuel his irritation, fusing with the memory of speaking with the two men earlier, the discomfort from their unsettling stares and patronizing tones. A simmering indignation threatens to burst forth at the realization that he feels lesser, reduced to an object, a shiny trophy to be admired. </p><p>Gripping the Master by the arm, the Doctor attempts to pull him away, patience worn too thin to stop and reason. Another spike of humiliation flares when the Master slaps his hand away with a disapproving glare, not unlike a disobedient pet. </p><p>The Master straightens his sleeve and pats away unseen dust from his jacket before wrapping an arm around the Doctor's waist, sending a nod and a rueful smile backwards as he steers the Doctor away through the flocks of enthusiastic guests. </p><p>Disgruntled and face hot, the Doctor whacks away his arm and strides brusquely forward, across the main hall and keeping several paces ahead of the Master until they reach one of the side exits, leaving behind the bright chandeliers and the loud music and conversation to a dim corridor, vacant and cold. They walk a handful more feet away from the door until the cheerful glow of light fades away, enshrouding them both in the night, illuminated solely by a pale wash of moonlight from the arched windows. </p><p>There's an air of feigned innocence about the Master when he tilts his head, eyebrows raised and hands in his trouser pockets, shoulders relaxed as he waits for the Doctor to speak first. </p><p>But the Doctor finds that his mouth has run dry, his head empty and struggling to come up with a response that he can bring himself to say without sounding desperate and hopelessly accusatory to his ears. That he was jealous? That he didn't like how suggestive the Master seemed to act around his dance partners? </p><p>That he felt neglected, abandoned, alone? The words stick in his throat, unbudging.</p><p>A moment of heavy silence passes between them before the Master chooses to speak. "You were jealous," he says, holding the Doctor's gaze, unwavering and impassive. Not a question but a statement, clipped and sure. </p><p>Heat flashes in the Doctor's cheeks again, rushing to his ears and neck. "You were causing a scene," he deflects, finding it difficult to maintain eye contact with the Master, the other's amber stare as if piercing easily through him.</p><p>A slow, confident grin creeps up the Master's face. "I was not. I only danced."</p><p>"People were all watching you."</p><p>"That tends to happen when you're a good dancer."</p><p>"You– you were–" the Doctor falters, scrambling for words that make sense, something uncolored by the turmoil of emotions running rampant in his mind. "... You were making a show of it. Flirting with so many people."</p><p>"Oooh, flirting?" There's no denying the smugness now, the amusement dancing in the Master's eyes. "So you were watching me."</p><p>"I wasn't w– so you <em> were </em> flirting, then!" </p><p>The Doctor swallows, fighting to force back the agitation seeping in his tone, embarrassingly aware of how his voice pitched at the end. He takes an involuntary step behind when the Master nears, the planes and angles on the Master's face thrown into sharp contrast by the interplay of moonlight and shadows, and then another few steps until he slams into the wall with an audible thump. </p><p>The Master's hands remain in his pockets, his posture still comfortable and open, but the Doctor is caught by an unbearable feeling of tripping, of being exposed and pinned by the Master when the other man peers into his eyes, arrogant and triumphant. </p><p>"I wouldn't call that flirting, exactly." </p><p>The Master suddenly leans in, their bodies almost pressed against each other, a hand cupping the Doctor's cheek and fingers winding in his ruffled hair, warm breath spilling on the Doctor's face as he whispers, "<em>this </em> is flirting." </p><p>Then he guides the Doctor's head down, bringing their lips together into a bruising kiss. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The next chapter has been written; I'm just at the revising stage so it'll be up in a few days. Comments &amp; kudos would be very much appreciated, and thanks so much for reading!! :D</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Stunned, the Doctor's mouth falls open and lets the Master in, arms coming up to wrap around the Master's waist and slumping against the wall </p>
<p>The Master kisses with that same arrogance as he keeps the Doctor trapped in place, grip tight in his hair and hand wandering down his chest to rest at the flat of his stomach, firm and possessive when he explores the Doctor's mouth, tasting of syrup and a faint tinge of alcohol. The Doctor lets himself be consumed, coherent thoughts fleeing and desire reigniting. </p>
<p>They finally break apart after several moments, their breaths uneven and the Master undeniably smug as he quirks an eyebrow, face flushed and bowtie askew. The Doctor can only guess what he looks like himself with his lips heating and swelling, his vest unbuttoned and shirt untucked. </p>
<p>"Aren't I supposed to be angry with you?" he pants, voice ragged. </p>
<p>The Master chuckles. "Are you?" </p>
<p>"I–" </p>
<p>The Doctor moans when the Master presses back against him, their hips aligned, feeling the hard length of the Master's cock rubbing against his own through the layers of fabric. </p>
<p>"We shouldn't– not here," he gasps, but his hands continue to cling to the Master in spite of his objection, legs resembling more like putty as he leans on the wall for support. The Master mouths at his jaw and trails downwards to his throat, hot and wet, his hands delving back inside the Doctor's shirt and brushing over the soft hairs on his chest. "The TARDIS–"</p>
<p>"Mmmm."</p>
<p>The hands retreat and he hears a familiar buzzing noise, a bright flash of blue when the Master sticks an arm out and aims at a wooden door behind him, the lock clicking in response. The Doctor's hand flies to his pocket, noticing too late that the Master had snuck the sonic screwdriver away. </p>
<p>He barely has the time to complain when the Master yanks the door open and drags them both in. They tumble into a cramped space, scarcely enough room for both of them to move their limbs freely, and the Master slams the door shut again, engulfing them in total darkness. Another buzz and a lamp flickers to life above their heads, casting a pale orange light as its candle begins to burn. They're surrounded by ceiling high shelves, filled with rows upon rows of neatly organized boxes and tin buckets, each with piles of tiny trinkets, old and faded. Brooms sit in another corner, along with a heap of assorted rags. </p>
<p>"A broom closet," the Doctor says flatly, looking at the Master in vague disbelief. </p>
<p>The Master smiles cheekily, throwing his gloves behind him and toeing off his shoes. "Keeps it period appropriate." </p>
<p>And with that he shoves the Doctor to the floor, kneeling between his thighs and sandwiching him forcefully against the shelves in another fierce kiss, teeth clashing and biting at his lips, hands undoing the belt and diving under his trousers. </p>
<p>Head spinning, the Doctor moans when the Master palms him through his briefs, cock already hardening with interest, hips lifting when the Master nips at his neck and peels off his trousers and briefs together. Kicking them away along with his shoes, the Doctor hisses at the cold marble floor on his bare skin and reaches to pull off the Master's jacket, tossing them in a heap with his other clothes. Off comes the Doctor's jacket and both of their vests, and with a sharp tug the Doctor's bow tie unravels and slips off. </p>
<p>The Master surges against him in another kiss, securing his arms behind him, hands making quick work of tying them together with the strip of bow tie. The Doctor whines into his mouth, wrists jerking, fighting the knot made tight enough to chafe if he struggles too much.</p>
<p>Panting, the Master pulls back with a self-satisfied grin, kneeling and balancing on his heels as his gaze leisurely sweeps the Doctor from head to toe, admiring his handiwork.</p>
<p>The Doctor reddens at the gesture, shame flooding him when he imagines how debauched he must look right now, hair mussed and lips swollen, hands bound and almost entirely naked except his dress shirt, unbuttoned and bunching around his arms. His arousal is a rigid line against his stomach, fully erect and beading precome. </p>
<p>"Mine," the Master murmurs, dragging a finger down from his collar bone, nail scratching the stiff bud of a nipple and shifting closer so his hand settles onto the jut of the Doctor's hip bone, the fabric of his shirt and trousers rough against the Doctor's skin. </p>
<p>The combined touch of cloth and cold marble kicks in his awareness of how much more clothed the Master still is compared to him, his appearance and unhurried pace a drastic contrast to how the Doctor looks. Or feels, for the matter, the Master calm and controlled while the Doctor's head is full of cotton, a heavy cloud of need hanging. His head knocks back onto a wooden box when the Master wraps a hand around his cock, playful and gentle, running a thumb across the head and spreading his precome slickly around the length. He strokes him in a lazy rhythm, his touches too light to give any relief. </p>
<p>Hips rocking forward into the Master's grasp, a plea ready on his lips, the Doctor is shocked to notice that he can hear a faint thrum of activity behind him, the music and conversation soft and muffled, but undoubtedly audible through the wall, the slightest tremors of bass notes reverberating in the marble flooring. Abrupt fear cuts through the haze of arousal, gripping him at the realization that the walls are much thinner than he expected, its soundproofing weak. Anyone passing by the corridor or straying too close to the wall on the other side may hear them. </p>
<p>"Maybe we shouldn't– What if–" he starts, cutting off in a moan when the Master laves at his chest, teeth grazing skin and tongue flicking his nipple, hand fully wrapped around his cock. "Please, Master." </p>
<p>He chokes as the Master bites down on the hardened bud, lurching at the jolt of pain. "What if we get caught?" </p>
<p>The Master finally draws back but his hands keep wandering, stroking the Doctor's abdomen, the inside of his thighs, fingers tracing circles on his skin, inches away from his cock. "So?"</p>
<p>"We'll make a huge scene." </p>
<p>"And how does that make you feel?"</p>
<p>How does it make him feel? He doesn't quite know either as he attempts to resist leaning into the Master's touch, blocking out the feather-light sensations and the Master's eyes on him, unabashedly hungry but patient. Waiting.</p>
<p>It ought to make him be ashamed, afraid, shut down the raging heat in his core at the thought of the people in the hall, the blasphemy of two men making out in a broom closet more than enough to scandalize their Victorian sensibilities. And the wanton view of himself, too, bound and lying on the floor, flushed and aroused, legs spread open and so easily taken. </p>
<p>"I-I don't know," he whispers, turning his head away as the shame intensifies, the heat rising and flooding to every corner of his limbs. </p>
<p>The Master hums, a hand moving back up his torso and delicately caressing the teeth marks on his chest, rolling the sore bud between fingers and tugging almost idly. The other drifts lower, ghosting past his balls to stroke his perineum, and the Doctor's cock twitches traitorously in interest, more drops of precome splattering onto his stomach. "Imagine all those eyes on you, seeing you like this." His fingers dip lower still, teasing the furl of his entrance, not enough to penetrate. "Scandalous."</p>
<p>"Please," the Doctor begs, conflicted, muscles clenched in tension and logic demanding that he should ask the Master to stop. But he wants more, wants to be touched, wants to be claimed and fucked in the tiny enclosure, hidden away in a dark hall just out of sight from the ball attendees. He wants the Master to be his, not his dance partners', not the man with the ginger hair.</p>
<p>"You like it." There's a playful note of accusation in the Master's tone as he spreads the Doctor's thighs further apart and pushes them closer to the Doctor's chest, forcing his back to bend and curve, tendons stretched almost to the point of pain. "The risk of being caught." </p>
<p>Breath hitching, the Doctor's eyes flutter shut with a quiet moan, making no move to deny the statement, loathing how the Master's verbalisation of his thoughts seems to trigger an even more potent wave of need.</p>
<p>"Well?" The Master's hand rubs at the small pool of precome gathered on his stomach and then his cock, curling around the head. Then he feels fingers slick with the precome against his perineum again, tracing a line from his entrance to his cock over and over, making him squirm from the sensitivity. </p>
<p>"I do." The Doctor chokes on the last syllable, throat closing from humiliation. </p>
<p>He feels the Master's hand withdraw and hears the sound of a plastic lid popping open, and he barely prevents himself from crying out when something ice-cold pours down his cock, painting messy streaks on his stomach and trickling down the crack of his arse. A finger quickly breaches him, pushing relentlessly past the tight ring of muscle until it's knuckle-deep, pausing only for a brief moment when the Doctor suppresses a groan and clenches involuntarily at the intrusion, then starts a slow drag in and out. </p>
<p>His breaths come in short gasps as the Master nuzzles his throat and nips at the skin, sucking at the pulse point, the air filled with a familiar scent of artificial apple. From the corner of his vision, he spots a bottle sitting by the Master's knees, recognizing it as the same bottle they've been using for the past week.</p>
<p>A stinging slap to his inner thigh brings him back to the Master, the other frowning with hard disapproval in his eyes. "Eyes on me," he orders, displeased. </p>
<p>There's a dull ache when a second finger joins the first, thrusting insistently to work more lubricant in, loosening his entrance with wet, slick noises, amplified by the compact space. </p>
<p>The Doctor suddenly jolts, a low whine escaping his throat when the Master crooks his fingers, feeling light-headed from the intensity as the Master begins to massage incessantly at the spot, sucking harder at his throat. Fingers still fucking him uninterrupted, the Master pulls away from his neck, a glistening line of saliva trailing from where it's sore and throbbing. </p>
<p>"Maybe I should let them see you like this," the other says in a pensive voice. He scarcely gives the Doctor any time to react before he adds in a third finger, burying all three digits deep in him and stretching. "See how much you crave to be fucked." </p>
<p>Lost in the stinging pleasure-pain of being worked open, the Doctor lets out a stream of soft whimpers instead of words, almost too dazed to properly consider the implications.</p>
<p>"Those men, they were eyeing you the whole evening," the Master breathes, his other hand coming up to caress the Doctor's throat, near his jaw where it remains wet from his ministrations, sure to bloom into a dark bruise. "Do you know why?"</p>
<p>Remembering the disconcerting stares and odd conversation, the Doctor shakes his head, not trusting his voice to be stable, not with the Master fingering him more roughly with occasional strokes to his prostate, the burn of friction leaving him shivering, copious precome leaking from his erection. </p>
<p>"They think you're a rentboy, mine to fuck this evening."</p>
<p>Oh.</p>
<p>It falls in place then, why those men spoke to him the way they did, asking about his skills, the price for his service. Discussing him like a thing belonging to the Master, to be examined, lent out or bought. But his concentration snaps again when the Master wraps a hand around his cock and pumps it along to the rhythm of his probing fingers, then presses their foreheads together, a demanding force into his mind. </p>
<p>Overwhelmed with thick waves of pleasure, the Doctor lets his mental walls melt away at the intrusion, welcoming the Master into his head and sinking effortlessly into the proffered memories. They're all of himself as seen through the Master's eyes, the changed angle and distance jarring, but he can now clearly recognize that the strange gleam in those mens' eyes was poorly disguised lust. Predatorial in the way they tracked his every gesture while he was their prey, too distracted and oblivious to understand. </p>
<p>"Think of what they'd do to you if they see you. I don't think they'll be able to resist." </p>
<p>The strokes quicken and his toes curl, body tensing as he teeters dangerously close to the edge, the need to come bordering on being unbearable. He keens, rutting his hips, wanting the fingers deeper, the hand on his cock firmer, just a bit more to tip over the edge. </p>
<p>It all comes to an abrupt stop when the Master withdraws his hands, eliciting another whine from the Doctor, blood roaring in his ears and upset at the loss of contact. A soft clink of the belt buckle and the shuffle of cloth, then the Master presses back, the line of his cock hard against the Doctor's cleft. He's still frustratingly clothed, his trousers pulled down enough to free his straining erection, the fabric of his suit cool against the Doctor's heated skin. </p>
<p>"If you're a good boy and stay quiet," the Master says, his tone low and dark, gliding teasingly in the slickness, its head catching the stretched rim of his entrance. He laces fingers into the Doctor's sweat-soaked hair, tilting his head up and placing a soft kiss on the corner of his lips. "I'll think about not sharing." </p>
<p>Then he pushes into him, solid and unyielding, and the Doctor chokes down a noise as he's pinned against the shelves and filled, too much and not enough, shoulders and thighs straining from the intensity, gasping, whimpers building in his throat and on the brink of spilling. He begs himself to stay silent and take it, be good like the Master asked, wishing desperately there was something he was allowed to bite onto, for the Master to force him instead. </p>
<p>The Master lets out a pleased groan when he's seated fully, breaths coming in as short pants, waiting as the Doctor clenches around him, shuddering and adjusting, a thin sheen of sweat on his skin. </p>
<p>He starts a shallow pace, tiny jerks of his hips burying deep, sparks of pleasure rippling through the Doctor with each movement grazing his prostate, languid and maddening. The Doctor's mouth falls open in a soundless moan, eagerly rocking into his thrusts and digging his heels into the small of the Master's back to urge him closer, wanting more friction, more pressure. </p>
<p>Grunting, the Master draws out slowly, lets him feel every inch of him leaving his body before slamming back in, prompting the Doctor to shake and cry out before he can control himself.</p>
<p>"Careful," the Master hisses, eyes flashing. </p>
<p>He pauses, letting the Doctor suck in a deep breath before moving again and picking up the rhythm, a hand over the curve of the Doctor's hip and the other arm braced against the shelf behind the Doctor's head.</p>
<p>Despite the threat hanging unspoken, the Doctor knows there's little sincerity in the Master's promise, knows all too well that the Master could never bear to let anyone else see him at his most vulnerable, much less touch him. But the Master relishes in the roleplay, the power to have him humiliated and stripped down to a mere plaything, pretty and obedient, subject to his whims. </p>
<p>And the Master knows that he enjoys it, too, even if the Doctor loathes to admit it himself. </p>
<p>The Doctor lets his imagination wander as the Master drives steadily into him, hips angled to hit his prostate, and he grasps onto the loose threads of their shared mental connection, tugging and pulling the Master in, plunging into his unguarded mind. He directs a stream of images to play out for the Master, vivid and obscenely detailed, of being put on display for the group of other men. Dizzy and flushed with need, loose and spread open for them to touch, to fuck and discard carelessly after their turn while the Master watches. And maybe the Master will order them to hold him down, teach them how to use him as he pleads for more. </p>
<p>He feels an immediate stab of anger – and conflicted arousal – in response, fierce and possessive, surging against his mind, the Master's facade of control shattering at last.</p>
<p>With a growl the Master hikes his knees over his shoulders, almost bending him in half as he fucks into him harder, bruising grip on his thighs as the Master nips at his throat and collarbones, leaving a stinging trail of reddened skin. Every mark is scorched with the Master's claim, the thought of <em> mine </em> red-hot and demanding through their connection. </p>
<p>He doesn't bother to hide his triumphant grin, eyes drifting shut a second time when it becomes difficult to stifle the whimpers from the harsh rhythm, his breaths high and reedy, echoing with the wet, filthy noises of skin slapping skin and the Master's own ragged pants.</p>
<p>Shifting, the Master sidles a hand between them and settles on his cock, spreading the viscous fluids gathered at the head and dripping down his arousal, pumping his cock along with each thrust. </p>
<p>The Doctor bites down on his lip to swallow another noise, teeth near breaking skin, meeting every thrust and letting the heady sensations wash over and consume him, thoughts shattering into incoherency, the pleasure building rapidly like tidal waves under the combined stimulation. </p>
<p>Muscles taut, he feels his control slipping, splintering, chest heaving from the effort to keep the whimpers from rising, shivering violently from the need to let loose and come. Be good, be <em> good</em>, he chants in his head, nails digging into his palms, but even his inner voice edges on hysterical from waiting, wanting release, a litany of pleas intermixed with the Master's name, projecting loudly in their shared mindspace for the Master to hear. </p>
<p>Lips brushing his ear, the Master whispers, <em> commands</em>, "Come." </p>
<p>Head knocking back, the pleasure finally crests and overcomes him in shockwaves of ecstasy, and he chokes on a soundless gasp, shaking and clenching tightly around the Master's cock, spurts of come spilling messily over their abdomens.</p>
<p>Only a few more thrusts before the Master lets out a strangled moan as well, driving himself as deep as he can in the Doctor's pliant body, heat pulsing and filling him with his come as he rides out his orgasm with a last few errant movements. He stills, panting heavily until the aftershocks fade, then eases slowly out, claiming the Doctor's mouth with a kiss, soft and sweet, a pointed contrast from the coloring marks and the punishing pace he had set. </p>
<p>They lay in a pile of sticky, tangled limbs, ragged breaths and frantic heartsbeats gradually returning to normal, the Doctor feeling too spent to move the Master off him despite his numbing arms, yet restrained and squashed behind him. Some sense trickles back when the fog of afterglow clears and his sweat begins to cool, bringing uncomfortable awareness to the streaks of come painting his chest and leaking sluggishly from his hole, a striking reminder of what they've just done. </p>
<p>Heat flares in his cheeks once more from the sheer mortification, the Master's sated and smug gaze causing him to flush deeper. He squeaks when he feels fingers probing at his entrance again, pushing easily past the aching muscles and making him squirm with oversensitivity, cock twitching as the Master amuses himself with the slick sounds of leftover lube and come. </p>
<p>His fingers freeze when they hear footsteps, loud and reverberating down the empty hall, many feet away but drawing nearer without pause. Their eyes meet immediately, eyes widening and a shot of alarm running down the Doctor's spine when the Master smirks. </p>
<p>His heartsbeat quicken as the Master's smirk widens and begins to move, pulling out and stretching his rim against the soreness, then sinks back knuckles-deep inside, curling his fingers tantalizingly close to his prostate. </p>
<p>The rhythm picks up, the thrusts growing rougher, sloppier, and the Doctor can hear the heavy steps with frightening clarity, almost certainly a mere handful of steps away from their closet. </p>
<p>Caught in a fresh bout of humiliating arousal, the Doctor lunges forward and bites the Master's shoulder, sinking his teeth in with vicious satisfaction at the abrupt jerk and the barely contained huff of pain, the Master's fingers withdrawing reluctantly from him. </p>
<p>He clings onto the Master's shoulder, labored breathing muffled against the other's skin, tasting the salt of his sweat as they wait for the footsteps to pass and grow softer, fade into the distance until they're safely gone. </p>
<p>The Doctor draws back when there's only silence left, pleased to see distinct teeth marks where he bit the Master. "Bastard," he accuses, voice hoarse and shaky, hearts still pounding from the close call. </p>
<p>Snorting, the Master twists behind him to rifle through their discarded heap of clothing, producing the sonic screwdriver from underneath the pile. "This bastard," he says, wagging it in front of the Doctor's eyes, that annoying smugness creeping in again, "changed the molecular structure of the walls when I unlocked the door, so we were never in danger of being overheard." </p>
<p>A swift rush of anger and embarrassment leaves the Doctor dizzy and at loss for words from the reveal, spluttering as he glares at the Master. </p>
<p>Unperturbed, the Master brings his hand to his lips, making a show of examining the pearlescent fluids coating it, flexing his fingers so they part in silvery strands. He licks at a trickle of come from the flat of his wrist, dragging upwards to the top of his palm in a long and exaggerated stroke, and he swallows it with a quiet moan, swiping his lips to catch any stray drops. </p>
<p>If it's meant to be a distraction, it's working too shamefully well. The Doctor stares, cock hardening again and enraptured by the Master sucking on his fingers, working meticulously away until he's cleaned every inch, then frees his fingertips with a light pop and leaves his hand glistening with saliva. </p>
<p>Aiming a wicked grin at the Doctor, the Master crawls forward and settles back between the Doctor's thighs, bending down and tongue darting out to taste the head of the Doctor's erection, dipping into the slit before engulfing him in wet heat. </p>
<p>The Doctor's eyes flutter shut, a loud moan leaving him freely now, the last remnants of disgruntlement evaporating when the Master slides his fingers back in to massage his prostate just the way he likes it, no longer teasing. His legs wrap around the Master's waist, urging him closer. </p>
<p>He'll forgive the Master for the time being, he decides, his mind already melting into a pile of mush when the Master swallows more inches of him, deep enough that he feels himself pressing up against the opening of the Master's throat. Pleasure rushing down to his core, he lets the haze of need envelop him once more.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>"You should try this," the Doctor says much later, garbled by a mouthful of chocolate cake and offering a half eaten slice to the Master. The other man takes no notice, too focused on inspecting all the biscuits on a nearby platter. </p>
<p>The Doctor shifts restlessly where he stands, feeling wrung out and acutely aware of the dried come on his thighs and stomach, muscles aching and entrance sore from being thoroughly fucked a second time. At least the jacket and gold vest he's wearing hides the stains, and his sleeves cover the lines of chafed skin on his wrists, thankfully sparing him from further shame, though his and the Master's suits have become noticeably wrinkled after their tumble in the closet. </p>
<p>There's a serene atmosphere hanging about the refreshments room, the music fainter and conversations at a subdued volume, the lights dangling from the high vaulted ceilings a dimmer yellow and casting patterned shadows on the huge oil paintings that span across the walls. </p>
<p>Pawning off his cake to the Master and ignoring the ensuing protests, the Doctor skips over to the roast lamb sandwiched between crayfish jellies and hare soup, unusually hungry and enticed by the mouthwatering scent. He piles another plate high with the lamb and chunks of ham and game pies, grabbing a goblet of spiced wine and returning to find the Master still picking through the assorted biscuits, crumbs remaining where the leftover cake was. </p>
<p>The Master finally settles on a plain yellow biscuit, taking a cautious bite. Raspberry jam spills from within, dripping messily over his fingers and palm. He sneaks a quick glance at the Doctor before popping the rest of the biscuit into his mouth, then licks his hand clean of the syrup and crumbs, delicate and kitten-like.</p>
<p>Heat curls in the Doctor again despite his fatigue, and he immediately averts his eyes, stuffing his mouth full with a large piece of ham and frantically trying to quash the sparks of arousal. He doesn't think he can take much more tonight, and <em> especially </em>not a space as tiny as the broom closet, if the cramps in his legs are any indication. </p>
<p>He takes a large gulp of wine, eyes casting about the room and observing the people, either resting their feet at the various tables or converging around the platters of food and lighter snacks, when he spots a familiar figure wandering in behind two others. </p>
<p>It's the ginger-haired young man again, flushed and sweaty from dancing, eyes shining and wearing a perpetually cheerful grin. To his dismay the young man seems to notice the Master very quickly, and he waves vigorously from across the room, bouncing on the balls of his feet.</p>
<p>Even more disappointing is the Master, turning his head immediately towards the young man and returning an equally bright smile and an enthusiastic wave. </p>
<p>Jealousy rises like a flame, unbidden, gnawing at him when the young man seems to wink at the Master and tap on his lapels. </p>
<p>Wait, the lapels–</p>
<p>The Doctor twists to look at the Master's lapels and then his own, then back again at the young man as he turns away to chatter with his friends, recalling what the Master had said about certain misconceptions and the oddly convenient bottle of lube he has with him. His hand flies self-consciously to his new boutonnière, the bout of jealousy vanishing and replaced by sharp indignation.</p>
<p>"You planned this, didn't you? You came prepared," he accuses, his voice still mortifying hoarse, a finger stabbing the pocket where the Master re-stowed the lube. "And you did something to my suit to make them think I'm–"</p>
<p>"An earnest lad who enjoys frequent outings with esteemed gentlemen, to put it one way. They're very particular about that kind of vocabulary here," the Master says. He finds a new biscuit, glazed with chocolate and filled with cream this time, flipping it in his hand as if in consideration. "It's because you're dressed very nicely. But also–" he fits the whole biscuit into his mouth and crunches noisily, "–it might be a little <em> too </em> nice to be appropriate for a ball, if you know where to look."</p>
<p>The Doctor puffs out his cheeks, suppressing a frustrated sigh but wholly unsurprised by the admission. He should have guessed from the Master's peculiar insistence to choose clothes for him, the expensive fabrics and accessories, the ridiculously tight fit. "Never letting you choose my clothes again," he mutters. "But what was with the holly?"</p>
<p>The Master smirks, waggling his eyebrows. "It means enchantment. And the mezereon for desire to please, both of which are accurate statements to make, I'd say." His voice drops lower, thick with suggestion, and his gaze comes to rest on the bruise on the Doctor's neck, darkening and peeking out from under his shirt collar. "After all, you worked very hard to be a good boy earlier."</p>
<p>Glaring, the Doctor elects to ignore the last line and the nagging physical discomfort it reminded him of, craving again for a hot shower. He takes a bite of the game pie and chews as he sulks, the warm and heavy flavor of allspice and thyme flooding his tongue. "And the ivy?" he asks, a paranoid hand continuing to cover the small bundle. </p>
<p>The Master hesitates almost imperceptibly, outstretched arm frozen over the plate of biscuits, then abruptly breaks their eye contact. "It means we should go," he says, tone slipping back into measured indifference, the playfulness gone. "The ball is nearly over. C'mon." </p>
<p>Gesturing towards the door, he scoops a handful of biscuits into his palm and takes one last swig of wine before striding forwards, blending into the flock of other guests filing out without a backwards glance. The Doctor notices now that the sound from the main hall has died down significantly, the crooning melody of a string quartet drifting through the halls, tender and sweet. </p>
<p>He jogs to catch up to the Master, the chandeliers considerably darkened in the main hall, shadows blurring the marble columns and arches, a meager few couples lingering on the dance floor and swaying gently to the waltz. The majority of the crowd are dispersing in twos and threes, and they follow quietly behind as they step out into the cool evening air, trailing along the paved stone road leading out of the large estate, a row of dainty garden lights guiding their path. Shivering from the breeze, the Doctor lets out a puff of air, appearing as silvery mist and dissipating into the deep blue of night. </p>
<p>They walk through the near deserted streets under the soft, orange glow of lamp posts, their silence occasionally interrupted by the trotting of horses and rattling of carriages on the road. The Master's expression is one of careful neutrality, hands shoved deep in his pockets and eyes trained on the vaguely box-shaped silhouette in the distance until they arrive, wordless and blank even when they enter the TARDIS. He disappears into the winding corridors with a biscuit held between his teeth, too quick for the Doctor to call out and stop him. </p>
<p>The Doctor walks to the monitor with a sigh, glancing again for any signs of the Master before rapidly inputting a few lines of English text into the interface. It beeps and the Gallifreyan transforms, neatly printed words and yellowed illustrations flickering across its screen until it stops at a phrase highlighted in blue. </p>
<p>Shutting off the monitor, he heads to the nearest bathroom he stumbles upon and tosses off the soiled outfit at last, the water set hot enough to sear his skin, washing away the grime and sweat as he drowns in a conflicting exhaustion, sweet and bright instead of bitter. Enveloped in a dense cloud of steam, time fades into the singular feeling of water as it cascades down his shoulders in rivulets. </p>
<p>He eventually emerges from the shower and trudges back in thin cotton pajamas to his – <em> their </em>– bedroom, the lights already put out, and flops onto the bed, diving under the covers with his hair still dripping wet. Settled under the heavy blankets and half-asleep, the Master grumbles weakly in protest but shifts anyway, allowing the Doctor to curl by his side as the other man crawls in and drapes his lanky limbs over him. </p>
<p>"The ivy," the Doctor starts, tracing idle circles on the Master's bare chest, a tangled Gallifreyan scribble. It's a childish gesture, linking their names together over and over. "It stands for marriage, doesn't it? In the Victorian language of flowers."</p>
<p>The Master tenses, making no move to respond. Starlight dances across his face, reflecting the two pale moons and the revolving constellations projected on their bedroom ceiling. They glide through opalescent dashes of planetary rings and shapeshifting nebulas in muted purples and blues, a perfect replica of the Gallifreyan night sky in autumn. </p>
<p>"You wanted to make me jealous by flirting with all those people," the Doctor continues, undeterred. "Why?"</p>
<p>There's a lengthy pause, then– "Are you interrogating me or what?" the Master fires back, evasive. He turns his head, tearing his gaze obstinately away from the web of stars and planets. </p>
<p>In a fluid movement, the Doctor rolls onto the Master, knees straddling his hips and elbows anchored at either side of his head. He peers at him in determination. "Tell me." </p>
<p>The defensive gleam in the other man's eyes wavers as his shoulders relax against the sheets, a sullen reluctance melting to something softer, more open and unguarded. Almost embarrassed, the Doctor realizes, but the darkness makes it too difficult to discern. </p>
<p>The Master swallows, licking his lips. "Just wanted to see if you cared," he admits, stilted and cautious, unsure, eyes flashing away from the Doctor and back. "If I was with other people. How much– how much you'd go. For me."</p>
<p>Joy and a tiny smidgen of triumph send the Doctor's hearts fluttering, even though the Master's reply simply confirmed what he'd suspected. Bending over, he captures the Master's mouth in an affectionate kiss, muffling the disgruntled noise of complaint and tasting peppermint on his tongue as he licks into him in languid strokes. The Master circles his arms around his hips and pulls him down into a tight embrace, fingers tracing the strip of exposed skin above the Doctor's waistband, slipping under his shirt and moving slowly up to caress the smooth muscles and curve of his spine. </p>
<p>They eventually separate in labored pants, the Doctor rolling off to settle contentedly by the Master's side, face buried in the crook of his neck and breathing the clean scent of soap as the lull of sleep washes over him.</p>
<p>"Hypothetically speaking, if you hadn't sonicked the walls," the Doctor murmurs, one last thought lingering in his mind, "what would you have done if we were actually found out?"</p>
<p>The Master turns to whack him lightly on the shoulder. "Are you really not going to shut up?" he asks irritably, voice already heavy with sleep. </p>
<p>"Pleeeeaaase." The Doctor nuzzles his jaw, unrelenting, and blows a puff of air into the Master's ear. </p>
<p>Flinching, the Master smacks him a second time. "Kill them for looking, of course." </p>
<p>Drowsiness vanishing in an instant, the Doctor stills with a frown, anxiety and skepticism brewing. With that sober expression and the matter-of-fact tone, he can't tell if the Master is joking, and his fingers tighten around the Master's torso, betraying his sudden inner turmoil. </p>
<p>Heaving an exasperated sigh, the Master reaches over a hand to cup the Doctor's face, thumb gently stroking his cheek, eyes clear and sincere. "You're mine, Doctor. No one else is allowed to see you like that. But for your pesky moral sensibilities, I'd knock them out and wipe their memories. "</p>
<p>His hand moves to the Doctor's temple and halts with the slightest tremble, his jaw clenched and breath catching, eyebrows furrowed in obvious indecision. </p>
<p>Then he lets himself open, sinking into the Doctor's head for a brilliant, fleeting second, the crash of fierce, immeasurable emotions he can never bring himself to say out loud, burning for centuries, hotter than starfire, heart-wrenching and intense but <em> happy </em>now, before the connection snaps and leaves only the Master's gaze, challenging, imploring him. Scared. </p>
<p>But the Doctor understands as he laces their fingers together and pulls them to his chest, letting the Master feel the strong and steady thrum of his hearts under their grasp. </p>
<p>"Me too," he whispers, throat tight, feeling the Master's grip tensing. "Always." </p>
<p>A small, quavering smile plays on the Master's lips as they lay there, hands clasped, quiet.   </p>
<p>A beat, then–</p>
<p>"We're married?"</p>
<p>The Master shoves a pillow into his face and swiftly turns his back to him, sending the Doctor into a burst of uncontrollable giggles. Tossing the offending pillow off their bed, he hooks his arms and legs around the Master again, snuggling closer to the other man's warmth. </p>
<p>He sleeps soundly that night. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>As a bonus, here's a bit of extra explanation on details here and there:<br/></p>
<ol>
<li> The white rose on the Master's lapel means "I am worthy of you", while apple means "temptation".</li>
<li> Referenced in the previous chapter, Leicester Square and the Haymarket were areas known for prostitution. Portland refers to Portland Place, a club for aristocratic men interested in male prostitutes.</li>
<li> "Earnest" may have been a code word for gay.</li>
</ol>
<p>Also a shout out to Verayne for some incredibly helpful brainstorming, as well as offering a lot of moral support :")) This is my first time publishing a fic in six years and I had quite a bit of anxiety about it, so I'm thankful beyond words for all the love this fic has received &lt;3 </p>
<p>Kudos and comments are always appreciated, and feel free to catch me @ lasersonicked on <a href="https://lasersonicked.tumblr.com">Tumblr</a> &amp; <a href="https://www.twitter.com/lasersonicked">Twitter</a> :D Until the next fic!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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